"Why are you afraid, my Lord, of falling in love?" John Clay wondered from where he sat, looking upon Sherlock's shining shoes where they hung over the bed so as to be admired.
"I am not afraid of love, I'm afraid of the weakness that it brings with it! This is more complicated than it may seem, for the man I have fallen for is the very Detective trying to bring you all home!" Sherlock exclaimed in agony, rolling over onto his stomach so as to grimace into the blankets where they might not see him so vividly. This time there was chatter, all of the men looked towards each other and gasped, for they obviously didn't like the idea of that. The very idea of returning to their wives was ghastly to them, it was a nightmare, and Sherlock understood that of course!
"You are all safe, I assure that he will not find you, nor will he find me. Homosexuality is a crime, and therefore I cannot express my feelings to him lest I be locked up for indecency! What a state I have found myself in!" Sherlock exclaimed miserably.
"What a state indeed." One of the men murmured, making Sherlock all the more hysterical.
"My Lord you act as if you have yet to fall in love, and yet if you know nothing of love, who are we all to you?" asked a timid yet recognizable voice, a voice that could only belong to the one man here that would take Sherlock's wandering heart as a personal offense.
"Victor darling, I sense that you do not thoroughly understand your place here." Sherlock presumed, sitting up once so as to address the childish man that was sitting before him, so unsure of himself yet so needy. What a fool to overestimate his status in this household, to overestimate his stature!
"My Lord?" Victor mumbled nervously, to which the rest of the men giggled a bit knowingly. They had of course come to realize long ago that Sherlock didn't legitimately love them, and it would seem as though they were honored to be present when Victor was hit with the same burden. He may not be the most popular of the men that inhabited the attic.
"Victor, I do love you all, but I am not in love with you all. There is a difference you see, for love is something that is thrown around so carelessly, an emotion rather than a lifestyle. It is like the difference between sadness and depression, or happiness and...well whatever lifelong happiness is. Ignorance I suppose. My point is that love lasts only a short time, while being in love is simply a state of being, not so easily brushed aside. I had never anticipated ever falling in love with a man; I had never anticipated falling in love with anyone. Yet I knew I would have to love, and that I have." Sherlock muttered quietly. Victor nodded, clenching his fists against the rug as his gaze dropped from Sherlock's, almost as if he was trying his hardest not to let tears fall from his eyes.
"Yes alright." He managed in a broken voice, to which all the other men laughed a bit cruelly.
"Now stop it, all of you! I need you here to help me, not to sit around and scoff at your fellow men! Now tell me, anyone, how it is I should approach this!" Sherlock demanded, wiping his bangs nervously from his forehead all while the men theorized what it was that they thought might be the best course of action. There were some rather horrible suggestions, the worst of which came from Victor, who suggested that since John was the Detective on Sherlock's tail that he should just let him alone and focus once more on the men he had harbored here for his enjoyment. The best of the options, or at least the one that Sherlock would most prefer, was that he just marched right down to that hotel in his silver robe and grab John from his wife's bed only to drag him back into his own. Both options were the extremes of both sides, to do nothing or to do everything all at once, however Sherlock decided that best course of action might be somewhere in the middle. He wouldn't be nearly as optimistic if he hadn't noticed something of an attraction growing on the other side of this fatal barrier. John had been very focused on him, focused with an expression that was all too recognizable. He had those lingering eyes, he had those fidgeting hands, his words came in fragments and they left with a trail of breath, his eyes coming back to realize the beauty of his host and his heart beginning to flop in his chest, well Sherlock had seen these symptoms before! It was love as well, and yet it was the more discreet form, the one that appeared in men who had already told themselves quite incorrectly that they were to be away from the scene of love for the rest of their existences. It was the look of the men who donned wedding bands, and tried to convince them that they were property of their wives forever. All of the men now, who sat before Sherlock and had no intention of leaving, they had all had that very same look upon their faces. And yet it might take some time, and surely Sherlock couldn't be as indiscreet as he usually was with these men, for there was a lot more on the line for him than just recognition. A prison sentence was more like it, that or the gallows if John was all that offended. When trying to flirt with the power of the law it was quite impossible to figure out the best way to go about it. In the end Sherlock found that the men really were of no help. Instead of looking out for Sherlock's best interest they all seemed to only care about their own wellbeing, and now with the arrival of competition they were all getting a bit hostile. For one thing it seemed as though Victor would begin to cry, and along with that it also seemed like the other men might beat him up for being such a sissy if he dared to shed a single tear. Evidently they did not like him, and it was for that fact alone that Sherlock bid them all goodnight, all except Victor of course, who was permitted to stay merely so that Sherlock could attempt to calm him down. When the men left in a single file (all having made sure to kiss Sherlock's hand before they departed) they closed the door and left Sherlock and Victor alone once more. The man was still sitting on the floor, however he was looking just a bit more overpowering while the others left and he was permitted to stay. He lacked his usual shine of confidence, for it would seem now as if he assumed there was an end date to this unyielding love that was blossoming between the two of them. He was beginning to realize that while his heart was completely filled with the idea of Sherlock, Sherlock's heart held merely a small section for him.
"Victor love, come up here with me." Sherlock instructed, sitting up against the headboard and holding out his arms for Victor to join him. The man crawled up and curled into an obedient little ball at Sherlock's side, letting his head fall against the man's chest while they both breathed in synchronization. There was silence for a moment, silence that was occupied by Victor's thinking of what to do, and Sherlock's thinking of what to say. In the end Sherlock came to his confusion faster, for his mouth opened long before Victor's arm had the chance to even twitch.
"Victor I know that you are still new to this, and so you're not entirely sure of how the world works around here. I would love to tell you that my heart it completely obedient to you, I would love to assure you that while I have so many other men who would like to have the same privilege, that you are my one and only. And yet that is simply not true, and I'm sure you understand that deep down. You are one of many, while Mr. Watson is a kind of his own." Sherlock breathed, shaking his head in annoyance as he realized what kind of trap that Detective had caught him in. In some ways the gallows would be preferable; at least hanging was a quick, nearly painless affair!
"I do not want to share you, my Lord. For while you may only love me, I have been in love with you since I ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on you." Victor whispered quietly, tucking his head even closer towards Sherlock's chin all the while Sherlock just smiled pitifully onto the man. It was curious, the sense of extreme agony that had befallen the thing, for he really hadn't been subject to Sherlock's household for very long. Surely he didn't really think himself the superior man, the only one that was now occupying Sherlock's heart? And yet what Sherlock had was unusual, surely he couldn't deny that and so Victor's unknowingness was at least excusable in that sense. Sherlock had never invited a man to his house and let him leave that very night...in fact he had never invited a man to his house and not even touched him, or kissed him, or done anything romantic in any sense! No, John Watson was the first man to enter the house and leave it, and he was the first to have taken something of Sherlock's that he wanted back quite desperately. His heart. Yes this was all new, it was all quite unprecedented, and yet it still didn't refute Victor's ignorance and his very egocentric way of viewing the world. Would he learn eventually that the world, however cruel it might be, still didn't revolve around him?
"I am sorry it could not have been more, Victor." Sherlock mumbled, and yet he was not sincere. He was happy that it wasn't more than just love between he and Victor, because if he had been clouded with thoughts of Victor then he may not have had time to think more on John Watson, the man that deserved more of his love and affection than any other creature on this godforsaken Earth. 

Sherlock was almost surprised to see that there was a woman occupying John's table that morning, the same woman that was unable to occupy Sherlock's table the night before. It wasn't like he was very disappointed to see Mary alive and well; it was just that while her presence wasn't going to be the defining factor, it was indeed going to complicate things a bit more than necessary. In the end Sherlock would get the heart of John Watson, that was always how it went in these romantic pursuits, it was simply that the chase went on longer when there was a woman pulling the prey away. Sherlock purposely faced himself to look at John, sitting in his usual spot with his glasses sitting on the brim of his nose, thanking Molly as she arrived with his usual breakfast while looking over once more at where John was having a very difficult time keeping his eyes focused on his own breakfast. For supposedly having been sick the night before, Mary was looking quite well. She had done up her hair for the occasion of breakfast on the sidewalk and she was sitting quite straight, talking in her low feminine voice while it was all John could do but nod along and pretend to be listening. That really was all you could do when in conversation with a woman, Sherlock had found out long ago. Thankfully the only woman that would dare converse with him was too busy waiting on the other costumers to make too big of a fuss over his presence. Molly merely bid him good morning before she was off refilling someone's tea or stocking more Danishes in the display cases. She really did have quite the job. Sherlock had quite the job as well, he was able to look across the café and see John looking back, he was able to smile as the man averted his eyes, for the guilt of staring came hand in hand with the guilt of loving. It was curious how such a setting with such company could alter a man's morals, for last night when they had been alone and smoking by the fire Sherlock had noticed that John really had no problem in staring at him from where he had sat. In fact he seemed very keen on staring, as if he had wanted to do nothing more than let his eyes feast themselves on the mural of a man that sat before him, watching his lips curl and his fingers twitch, watching his legs cross and the buttons on his shirt struggle. Sherlock loved to watch a man slowly loose his mind over the way he sat so beautifully casual, it was always the driving factor behind most of his longing over the furniture, and over the temptation to enjoy a smoke while he was not at all a fan of tobacco. Now that it was daylight in this busy café John seemed rather awkward, almost as if he found it difficult to look over at the man he had been staring at so effortlessly the night before. Maybe it was because he felt awkward without having properly acknowledging each other this morning, that or it was because his wife was sitting across from him, also able to read the telltale signs on his face. Or maybe it was because he was realizing that there was something stirring in his chest...something dangerous. Sherlock sipped at his coffee once more before wondering just how he might approach the man, for as entertaining as it was to watch him as he sat there trying to ignore the man who sat right over his wife's shoulder Sherlock also very direly wanted to approach the man himself. He wanted to once more meet the man of his nightly struggles and evening conversations, the man who now frequented his dreams, as narrow and as single minded as they had become. So he finished his little breakfast before dabbing at his lips and getting to his feet, leaving his cane and hat there on the table so as to ensure that no one came along and stole his chair out from under him. John saw his approaching and made an effort not to notice anymore, for maybe he was under the impression that Sherlock was merely on his way out, and it would be too much of an awkward confrontation to speak upon that now, in front of his wife. However Mary noticed him, and being as though they had never yet been formally acquainted she looked a bit apprehensive to see such a tall, dark man standing in her presence.
"Hello." She muttered nervously, to which John finally lifted his head and had trouble wiping the smile of relief that was now on his face.
"Mr. Holmes!" he exclaimed excitedly, the mere sound of his voice striking Sherlock right in the heart with its intensity. Oh he felt like a silly child, in love and hopeless to its overpowering rule! And yet it was a wonderful feeling, for a man who had been so dominating in all aspects of his life, well maybe sometimes it was good to finally be at someone else's mercy.
"Mr. Watson, sorry to interrupt you but I thought it rude to not at least say hello. Mrs. Watson, I do not believe we have formally met. Sherlock Holmes, a friend of your husband's." Sherlock said with a grin, to which Mary extended her hand to be kissed. Sherlock hated this form of greeting between men and women, for their foul skin never deserved the pleasure of being kissed by his lips! And yet all the same he allowed himself to press her hand to his lips, and of course he noticed the shiver that went down John's spine, for while it was Mary's hand he kissed it was her husband he watched. It was obvious that John longed for the same greeting, and Sherlock would be ever so obliged to give it to him, should he ask. However handshakes were more common among men, a tragedy of course.
"Yes he has told me a lot about you." Mary agreed with a reluctant sort of grin, almost as if she was making this up as she went. It was obvious then, that she knew nothing about John and Sherlock's relationship thus far. In fact she didn't even seem to know much about the man's presence in her husband's life, almost as if Sherlock had been John's little secret.
"I hope you are feeling better, however. Looking quite well to me." Sherlock observed with a sly little grin, for he knew that if Mary wasn't even aware of who he was then it was certain that she had not been informed of the dinner the night before.
"Oh well...yes I am feeling well. Thank you for your concern." Mary agreed, looking towards John as if asking him silently about the mental stability of the man before them.
"John had told me last night that you were feeling ill." Sherlock pointed out; trying to wear his best look of oblivious concern all while the tenseness of the couple seemed to rise exponentially. As Mary started to formulate more questions John began to fear more and more for his life, and together they mustered up quite the force. Sherlock could only watch it happen; playing the part of innocent bystander all while he realized what kind of marital strife he was causing between the two.
"You were with my husband last night?" Mary clarified, looking towards John with something of a fiery glare, all while John was stammering for the polite response. He obviously didn't want to anger his wife any farther, however he didn't want to hurt Sherlock's feelings either. It was a delicate situation, that was for sure.
"Yes, for dinner. I'm sorry Mrs. Watson; I didn't know you were unaware." Sherlock muttered, looking to John who had turned quite the shade of scarlet, seemingly unable to formulate words to defend himself on either side. Obviously Mary needed an explanation, and yet Sherlock understood John's point quite well. He was obviously unwilling to share with Mary the other life he was beginning to lead, he wasn't trying to merge the two, he didn't want her getting suspicious should he ever come home later, or even the next morning. It would be a lot easier to claim he had been out for work, rather than having to admit to hanging about with a beautiful stranger.
"No, no Mr. Holmes thank you for informing me. My husband, on the other hand, has a lot to say for himself. Come along John, back to the hotel room. I'll pay the bill." Mary said flatly, getting to her feet and nodding to Sherlock once more before dropping the owed money onto the table and departing in a moody sort of rage. John stammered out his farewells for a moment before chasing after her, calling out her name in a futile attempt to at least gain some sort of sympathy before the yelling began.